What do you want?
I? I want nothing. This is not about what I want; it is defined, entirely, by what you want. Will you sacrifice the lives of one of the Dragons? Will you sacrifice Teela, or Severn, who are closer? Will you sacrifice some of the people in the city you are sworn to protect?
No! And no, and no, and no. She stared at the marks on her arms, willing them to come to life when she needed them. She would give him the words. She would give him all the words. But...without them, she wouldn’t be able to heal.
Nothing comes without cost, Kaylin. Even were I to want what you want—and I do not disdain it—there are actions I cannot take if you are unwilling to make the sacrifice required. I am sorry. If you will save your Arkon, if you will save your city—
She almost plugged her ears, but it wouldn’t have stopped the words.
The words are not yours to offer.
She had named the familiar. She had seen the shape of a name at his heart. Even thinking it, she knew that she couldn’t contain the whole of it—not to use against him; not to demand obedience.
You are wrong, he told her. Is that what you will sacrifice?
She had made the attempt to force someone to do something against their will by use of their name only twice, and it had caused her intense, visceral pain. And she knew, as the familiar flew, that this is not what he meant. She could live with pain. She hated it, but she could live with it—as long as it was hers.
Pain wasn’t the reason she hesitated. It had never been the reason she hesitated. To use the name—given or taken—was to use the person; it was to reduce the people described by the name at their core to the level of a weapon, a fancy dagger, no more. They became tools, without will or decisions of their own.
She was willing to do this when she believed she was working to save them. She was willing to do it when the alternative was death—hers or theirs. But even then, the memory was something she shied away from; it burned. It burned the way all her memories of life in the fief of Barren did, even at this remove.
It made her hate herself.
Yes, the familiar said. But that, Kaylin, is a powerful sacrifice. What you might achieve, should you make it, would be of note to any of the sorcerers of your world. What you lack in self-respect as a consequence would be given you by every other person of power or note.
Kaylin wasn’t religious—but time in the midwives guildhall had exposed her to a variety of mortal religions. The familiar— dodging flame and buzzing the damned ancestor as he did—was giving her the same choice that devils and demons and gods offered some poor, hapless, desperate fool as a test.
To refuse was to pass the complicated test. It had always been clear to Kaylin, in the stories. To refuse was to win.
It was not clear now. She heard the Arkon roar. It was defiant, that roar, and laced with pain. She heard Bellusdeo roar in frenzy, and she knew, Maggaron or no, the golden Dragon would take to the skies. She would join the Arkon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Severn’s arm tightened around her waist. Kaylin.
He was aware of what she felt. He might be aware of the entire conversation.
Yes. She felt his breath against her cheek; it was warm and silent. The Arkon would not have landed without cause. The Emperor would not attack without intent; they are aware of the Arkon’s presence. They must understand what he plans; Sanabalis asked that we support the Arkon.
But—
The city has survived for centuries without you. It’s possible it would have perished to the Devourer had you never been born—but even that, we can’t know. The Dragons are not foundlings. They are not lost children. They are not—they have never been—as powerless as we were.
Severn—the Arkon—if he—
Dies?
Yes!
Do you think he’s not aware that that’s the risk he takes? I’ve told you before: you can’t save everyone. You can’t ever save everyone. Do what you can do. Push yourself to do more, and you will break.
Loss would break her. Loss would break her in a hundred different ways. She meant to tell him as much, although it wasn’t necessary; he knew.
This is the only way out of the past, he continued, arm around her waist, chin in the crook of her neck. You are measured by the choices you make when it’s hard. It’s never as hard as when you’re afraid. It’s never as hard as when you have something to lose. You’ve made choices you still hate yourself for—it’s only in the past few months that you’ve been able to even think of them without self-loathing.
Fire. White fire. And red. Kaylin’s arms were in so much pain she thought the skin had been flayed off them—slowly. Her legs weren’t much better. But the back of her neck, which mostly had Severn’s face in it, was numb.
It’s the choices you make when it’s hard that define you. And when it’s hard, all choices seem bad. The familiar asked you—
You heard that?
Yes. I think he meant for me to hear it. He asked you what you were willing to sacrifice.
Yes.
Sacrifice the things you can. Sacrifice only what you can look back on with pride—or at least acceptance. It’s not easy—it’s never been easy—but we’re not children, anymore. We can live with the choices we’ve made because we can—barely—believe that we had no choice.
Kaylin said nothing.
You won’t believe that, here. The Dragons and the Barrani have choices. They’ve made plans. This is their fight.
It’s my city, too.
Yes. It’s our fight, too. But we do what we can do.
I can do this—
He shook her. And then, he loosed his hold on her waist. Can you? he asked.
Can you? the familiar asked. His voice was deep; it was calm. She had no idea if he would fight her should she attempt to take control of him. And she knew that if she somehow managed what seemed monumental—holding enough of the name she had seen and only vaguely remembered in mind for long enough to use it—something would break.
She didn’t really love the small dragon the way she loved Teela. She considered him mostly a pain, with built-in advantages that only barely outweighed the negatives.
Negatives?
Attacking a sleeping Hallionne? Destroying Severn’s favorite knife while I had it?
He snorted. It was loud. You wouldn’t have made it to the West March without my intervention.
I said there were built-in advantages.
He snorted again. You wouldn’t have survived to be called to the West March without my intervention.
Fine. Sorry. They vastly outweigh the negatives.
Snorting, apparently, was the gesture of choice in large dragon form.
But the point is—things will change. Unless you want me to do this.
No one who has will and thought and desire wants to be enslaved. I told you: this is not, in the end, about me: the path that we follow will be carved or worn smooth by you and the choices you make. That is true no matter what you decide. Your decisions define what we are. They have since we were first joined.
You mean since you hatched.
Do I?
She had more to say, but spent most of her breath cursing as she attempted to put out the fire that had caught strands of hair. Most of which was no longer pinned up.
I’d rather you bite off my arm.
Yes. Which is why it would be no sacrifice to you. Not in the moment in which you make the decision. If you want the power, there is only one way to obtain it.
But WHY?
Because that is the price you must pay for power.
Kaylin thought of Teela, of Bellusdeo, of the Emperor.
You misunderstand. The price they pay, they pay—but this is your price. What you want of me is inconceivable levels of p
ower and strength, instantly. It is not power you have gained through use and growth and experience; it is not of you. But it is within your reach—and it is only, in this place, within your reach. Decide.
Severn’s arm tightened again.
And she knew that she could not do it. She could not surrender her friends—any of them. She couldn’t give over the responsibilities she had toward the citizens of Elantra—even the ones she despised.
They’re going to die anyway, a treacherous part of her mind said. Why not make those deaths count for something?
Because, she answered, even if they were strangers—or worse—they meant as much to someone else as her own friends meant to her. She wasn’t preventing pain—she was just passing it on as if she were playing a game of hot potato. And maybe that’s all anyone really did in the end—avoid things, and pass them on. But Kaylin had struggled to reach a place in her life where she no longer believed that, and she wanted to stay there.
Even if people die?
Yes. It felt like no. Yes, because I could never tell people how I’d saved them, or why. They’d resent me. She inhaled. I’d resent them if our positions were reversed. I’d resent them if they deliberately, knowingly, sacrificed others to save me.
Barrani will die here, tonight. Barrani have died.
Yes. But they chose that death. Theirs isn’t the same kind of sacrifice. It’s not certain. There is always the chance of survival. Always. If I die here, I’m not going to be happy—but I chose to be here. I demanded it.
Yes. Yes, Kaylin. The familiar came to an unexpected stop a yard above the ground. It was sudden enough that both Severn and Kaylin lost their seating. They managed to slow their fall against the familiar’s body, and spilled onto the ground. Even before they’d come to a stop, they were both rolling out of the way; Severn was up first.
He was spinning up his weapon chain at the edge of molten rock. What had once been solid dirt was now a pit in the ground, with glowing orange practically floating on top of it. It would kill either of them to touch it.
It was agony to walk; it was worse, to run. If Kaylin had had the time, she’d’ve ditched all her clothing, the friction was so bad. She heard Bellusdeo roar somewhere above her head, but didn’t pause or look up; she made a beeline for Severn’s back, because she knew what the spinning chain could do.
She just wasn’t certain it would work against the ancestor.
The Arkon didn’t even bark at her. He didn’t have the voice for it. He was—to her ear—intoning words that sounded painfully familiar, even if she couldn’t understand a single one of them. She kept her eyes on the ancestor, although she wanted to look back to see if what she suspected was true.
The Arkon was speaking true words.
“Go, Kaylin!” Severn shouted, without looking back to her. “Go to the Arkon!”
She hesitated; it was very brief. Fire once again shot up in a blinding, brilliant white column; she couldn’t see what it hit, if anything. The Dragons could resist it, although they clearly weren’t immune; she recognized Diarmat’s commanding bellow. He spoke Elantran; some of the Palace Guard must have arrived.
Or the Swords and the Hawks.
The Emperor roared.
Kaylin didn’t understand a word, but the voice that followed was Bellusdeo’s. She could guess. She didn’t stop to look; she ran in a straight line from Severn to where the Arkon stood. He was in Dragon form, although his voice was almost— almost—normal.
And he was reciting true words. His voice reminded her very much of Sanabalis’s voice, on the day she had heard him tell the Leontines the story of their beginning.
The ancestor’s fire flared from behind, catching more of her hair. She wheeled to see Severn. The fire parted at his chain, but joined again beyond him; it was much, much weaker. Her hair still burned. Her lip was bleeding—movement was painful. And she had to move, and quickly.
The Arkon’s eyes were bloodred. They were also the size of Kaylin’s head. He glared at her, his eyes rounding; she could see fire and its destruction reflected in them. That, and herself. Severn was invisible.
He didn’t break the flow of his speech to shout at her, and he didn’t sweep his extensive jaws to throw her out of the way; on a night like this, that had to be counted as a win. She continued toward him, ducking under his head until she stood directly between his gigantic claws. She didn’t remember the Arkon being so big in his draconic form.
But at least this way, she couldn’t see his eyes.
What she could see, as he continued to speak, were the words that formed in the wake of his voice. They were golden, and in size and shape very similar to the runes engraved in Helen’s heart—but they were floating in the air. She couldn’t speak them. The Dragons—with knowledge and practice—could. The Arkon had that knowledge.
It was why he had chosen to land.
Bellusdeo was screaming in Dragon frenzy—but to Kaylin’s ear, it sounded more like rage than pain. She let it go. There was nothing she could say to Bellusdeo now. Nothing she could say to the Arkon. He clearly had a plan—and he didn’t have the time to tell her what it was.
Do you understand what he’s trying to do? Kaylin asked the familiar.
Yes. I do not believe he will succeed.
Kaylin closed her eyes. It didn’t shut out the noises of combat. It didn’t shut out the very mortal voices that had joined the fray, coming from above and behind. It didn’t shut out the crackle of fire and the harsh thunder of magical lightning.
But it did shut out every visible thing that wasn’t a true word. True words, when spoken, had physical shape and form. Even the Arkon’s.
She trusted Severn to be aware of where she was; she trusted the Arkon’s magical protections. The latter were being tested—and the less she thought about that the better. She thought of the words. She looked at the words formed by his speech.
And she remembered, as she so often did, Tiamaris’s words. True words had an innate shape; a sense of “right” or “wrong” that had almost nothing to do with comprehension. She took a deep breath, and headed out of the Arkon’s shadow and into the glow of words. She could touch them; they were solid. She had to open her eyes because the ground beneath them wasn’t always as solid.
And yes: people were dying.
Barrani were dying.
Aerians.
She had no doubt that mortals on the ground would join them. The Aerians seemed to be carrying something—fine netting, line, something—as they circled. When one fell, someone flew in to pick up what they’d been carrying. Whatever it was, it didn’t catch fire the way—
The way wings did.
At this point, the discomfort magic caused her couldn’t get worse; she wasn’t numb, but she couldn’t gauge power or direction. There was just too much of it. But the heart of whatever defense—or offense—the Emperor’s forces intended was here, where the Arkon was. Where he was speaking.
Where he was telling some ancient, difficult story.
She reached out and touched the true words that had form. She adjusted the fall of lines and strokes, the subtle placement of dots, the fine, spidery wisp of light that looked almost accidental unless seen as part of the whole shape. She could do this without speaking.
No, Kaylin, the familiar said. You can’t. You are speaking.
I’m not—
He’s right, Severn said. I can hear you. I’m not the only one.
The ancestor’s skybound attacks ceased, at least briefly. As Kaylin moved between one stable patch of ground to another, touching words, jostling them, discretely changing the way the elements of each aligned, a new voice joined the Arkon’s.
She knew she had never heard the voice before.
She felt as if she had heard it every day of her life.
And she saw the words
form, across from the Arkon’s, their shapes and patterns far clearer and far more consistent, their form in harmony—that was the word Tiamaris had used—with the meaning that would forever escape her.
She almost stopped breathing, then. She understood that all the Imperial forces combined—many of whom were now also dying—would possibly, on a very very good day, be equal to this one man on a bad one. She understood why the Barrani feared them; she didn’t understand how the Barrani had survived.
No, the familiar said. But you are here. The Arkon is here. The Barrani you have chosen to support are here. All elements of your life are now in play. Remember what your Teela told you, Kaylin. It is important that you remember.
Teela had told her a lot.
Mortal memory cannot be this defective. What she said, she said in my hearing, although she spoke to you.
This was not helpful. Kaylin continued to move between the Arkon’s summoned words, but she knew that his summoning was too slow, too laborious, and her refinements too haphazard; the ancestor’s words were pure.
They were pure and essential and whole, and he spoke them so bloody quickly.
Think, she told herself. Panic is not helping anyone.
She looked at the words assembled before her—the ancestor’s, not the Arkon’s. Why did the Barrani fear—and loathe—their ancestors?
And she understood.
His words were not simple words. They were true names. A visceral, terrible anger gripped her as the realization sunk roots. The ancestors had tried to destroy their lesser kin in order to possess their names, because their names were words of power. They were almost the ultimate words of power: they contained the essential essence of life.
And every word—every word he had chosen to speak, every word that was now on display to her eyes, if no one else’s—had once been the heart of a living being. She had seen words like this in the Lake of Life. She’d touched any number of them in her search for the word that might, somehow, make the High Lord whole.
She had even taken one such word for herself, blindly and without intent. She had no idea how to return it; she’d never asked. The Consort had never demanded its return, although she knew.